Amanda Melendez

I recently had the marvelous opportunity to participate in the NSF-funded IRES Transdisciplinary Coral Reef Course, where I spent two unforgettable weeks living and working at the Lizard Island Research Station on the Great Barrier Reef. But to call it just a research trip feels like such an understatement—it was a full-on immersion into barefoot living, community, and coral science.

We arrived at Lizard Island and quickly learned that shoes were optional, if not entirely discouraged. The ground beneath every building was soft, white beach sand, and we’d rinse our feet in communal footbaths outside each building in a half-hearted attempt to keep the indoors sand-free. (Spoiler: sand always wins.)

Our cohort of students all bunked together in a big shared cabin called Kirby. It became the heart of our evenings, where we prepped group dinners and bonded over everything from kitchen duties to card games. Each night, two “head chefs” led the meal, choosing the menu and rallying the rest of us to help. Dinner became one of my favorite parts of the day, equal parts chaotic, cozy, and deeply human. I often found myself gravitating toward the kitchen even when I wasn’t on dinner duty. There’s something intimate about cooking alongside others: it’s where you catch glimpses of who people are beyond the lab.

After dinner, we’d sit around playing poker, using shells, trinkets, and rocks as currency. I once fought so hard for this perfect little pink cowrie shell (my prized possession) only for it to be snatched up in a savage round of poker by none other than my advisor, Dr. Tyler Cyronak. He held it hostage the rest of the trip, flaunting it just enough to drive me a little mad. That shell became kind of symbolic for me of the silliness and warmth that threaded through every long, sun-drenched day.

But the story doesn't end there…I did win back my beloved pink cowrie shell from Tyler! He had flaunted it mercilessly, so I challenged him to a race up Cook’s Look, the island’s highest point. It was a brutal climb, and I was absolutely dying halfway up, but I pushed through. And I won. Sweet, salty, triumphant victory. He begrudgingly handed it back to me, and I now keep it tucked safely away as a memento, not just of that moment, but of the many small triumphs that marked this trip.

The first week was full of seminars and field skill workshops. We learned coral ID and research techniques from Dr. Morgan Pratchett (who we affectionately nicknamed “the Justin Bieber of the Great Barrier Reef”). His courses were fantastic. We practiced transect surveys, point sampling, and colony counts out on the reef. He also taught us about the Crown-of-Thorns starfish outbreaks; a fascinating and complicated issue, one I still have mixed feelings about.

Meanwhile, I got to challenge myself as a tiller boat captain (read: very chaotic energy at first). I’d never driven a motorized tiller before, and let me tell you… getting that boat to respond felt like trying to steer a stubborn dog on a leash. But by the end of the week, I was volunteering to drive every chance I got.
We also had sessions with my advisor on coral biogeochemistry, as well as a deep dive into the CISME system (Community In Situ Metabolism), a diver-portable respirometer designed for non-invasive coral metabolic studies. Rob was the one who walked us through the CISME setup, and he quickly became a character none of us would forget. He reminded me so much of my grandfather, witty, no-nonsense, and always prepared with an unexpected snack.

We somehow found ourselves repeatedly raiding Rob’s stash of dried mangoes and Jaffa Cakes. He pretended to scold us every time, but you could tell he secretly got a kick out of it. There was something timeless about Rob, part brilliant field scientist, part lovable grump, with the kind of dry humor that sneaks up on you. He made technical things feel light and approachable. I still smile thinking about our mango heists. And then there was Jenny Mallon, a wonderfully brilliant postdoc fellow and research scientist at Lizard Island. She was running her own experiments with CISME during our stay and became such a grounding presence for me. We bonded over our mutual love of tea and my growing curiosity about incubation chambers. She became a kind of quiet mentor to me in ways I didn’t expect but really appreciated.

During the second week, I began working on my independent project, which centered around sediment chamber incubations across three habitats: coral reef, mangroves, and seagrass beds. I wanted to compare metabolic rates using oxygen fluxes to measure photosynthesis and respiration, and later ran alkalinity samples in the lab to analyze calcification and dissolution.

It sounded elegant on paper. In practice? It was a total scramble. We lost equipment. My partner (bless him)got stung by a blue bottle jellyfish. Some of our samples were compromised. I lost my drybag. The tides and time worked against us. But through all the chaos, I learned so much more than I ever could’ve imagined. I learned that science is troubleshooting. That beautiful questions matter more than perfect answers. That learning to adapt is sometimes the most valuable skill of all. That there’s no “ideal conditions” when you’re in the field, only real conditions. And you have to show up anyway.

This course was one of the most formative learning experiences of my life. I may not have gotten the exact data I set out for, but I got something far more meaningful; new skills, new stories, and a new community of people who are as passionate, curious, and oddball as I am. Even now, I find myself thinking back to those barefoot evenings at Kirby. To laughter and footbaths, sunburns and sediment cores, poker shells and tiller boats. I can’t believe I got to live that chapter. I carry it with me always.